


The Intermission Between Periods of Being Watched

by classics_above_classics



Series: Alice Dorothy and Stories Set Elsewhere [4]
Category: Elsewhere University (Webcomic)
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-23
Updated: 2019-05-23
Packaged: 2020-03-10 00:58:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18928075
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classics_above_classics/pseuds/classics_above_classics
Summary: A time to make changes and a time to think.(There are endless possibilities in meaningless exchanges.)





	The Intermission Between Periods of Being Watched

There is something almost comforting the fact that Cowboy is guarding her.

Of course, it’s not too comforting knowing that she needs to be guarded, but still.

“I appreciate the help, but… well, you really don’t have to do this,” Alice D. insists, her fingers clasped tightly around a salt packet and the clicker in her pocket. It’s a grounding sort of weight they give her, a weight that helps when she needs to do something that might be dangerous. Like, for example, trying to figure out why Cowboy would help her. He’s even carrying all of her bags, for God’s sake. There has to be something he wants. “You don’t owe me anything.”

And, even more concerningly, she doesn’t seem to owe him. There isn’t a string to be seen on her body, not even one in a deep blood-red like the one Johnny’s information trade had caused. This is a service freely offered. It shouldn’t be as worrying as it is.

“I know I don’t owe you anything. And you don’t owe me either, for that matter.” Cowboy trails her all-too-nonchalantly to the entrance of her new dorm, keeping an eye out for any students that might try to interrupt. Especially, of course, for one student in particular. “I just think it should be done. She looked about ready to outright deck you, back at the Café. If she was almost willing to do that in a safe haven, god knows what she’d do on unsafe grounds.”

“She’ll probably ask your brother for help.” Knowing Lento, the moment she saw Cowboy escorting her out of the Café, the idea would come to mind. “The third Fiddler offers retribution. She’s the one who told me that.”

“Fiddler? Is that what you call our merry band?” Cowboy laughs. The sound of it rings out almost too loudly in the emptying hallway. “That sounds terrible. Cowboy the Fiddler, lord above. It’s disgusting. I love it.”

“I think it came from Johnny’s name,” Alice D. speculates, stepping out of the way of a student who looks almost like a Good Neighbour with his considerable height. “The Devil Went Down to Georgia had a boy named Johnny make a deal with the Devil and win, right? As much as I doubt the existence of the Devil, it seems like the type of thing a rumour would latch onto.”

“That’s _exactly_ where my Johnny got the name.” The amused grin on Cowboy’s face is crooked, genuine in a way Alice D. almost can’t remember. Lento’s were never so asymmetrical. “He’ll love knowing that the idea caught on.”

It’s an almost comfortable walk. Almost.

D. can’t shake the feeling that something is off about this. There has to be some other reason Cowboy is helping her, right? She wants to believe it’s out of the goodness of his own heart- she wants _desperately_ to believe that. But after her best friend, her roommate, the girl she’d fallen in love with…

She doesn’t think her trust will be rewarded.

Still, there are no strings yet. So she’ll try.

“Should I call you something else, then? Something aside from Fiddler?” The name is a little odd, sounding more like a nickname than a proper epithet for a family of deal-makers. “I’d be happy to, if you wanted. Someone called Fiddler doesn’t exactly strike the fear of God into the hearts of men.”

“That’s a good point.” Cowboy hums, thinking on it for a moment, before an idea glints bright in his brown eyes. “How about Archangel?”

“What?”

“I could be Archangel Michael,” the taller man continues, counting off siblings on his fingers. “I’d love to be called Archangel Michael. I’ll have to rebrand, maybe change the drawing on the office nameplate. Johnny would be happy to be… well, Lucifer, I think, since he’s an edgy little shit. Heylel? Someone called Lucifer Heylel. Watson would love being Archangel Raphael. Calcifer… Archangel Gabriel? We could all be the Divine Family or something.”

“Isn’t Michael the archangel of justice? I thought that would be more the third… Watson’s? I thought it would be more Watson’s role.”

“Let me have this,” Cowboy- Michael? - huffs, crossing his arms over his chest. “It’s an inside joke.”

“Alright, then. You’ll be Michael.” Alice D. can’t help but smile at the uncharacteristic eagerness in Michael’s voice. “I appreciate you walking me back, Michael.”

She almost thanks him. It’s an instinct, it’s a choice, it’s something she can’t place, but she almost thanks him.

It feels almost wrong that she doesn’t. She wants to pay him back for this. She wants to thank him.

“I’m happy to help.” Michael nods, calming back down a little. “Either way, we’re at your new dorm. Welcome to Dorm 3N.”

“Dorm 3N?”

“It’s what Johnny’s batch called it.” He shrugs, passing her the heavy bags he’s been carrying with a distinct relief. D. wishes she’d insisted harder to take a few from him earlier. “But let’s leave that for another day. Welcome.”

“If you need anything-” D. offers almost instinctively, before her mind catches up and she shuts her mouth. Still, the offer’s been made. He could ask for anything, couldn’t he? Fuck, fuck, _fuck_ -

“I won’t ask it of you.” Michael levels her with a determined glare, his hands curling into fists. “Don’t tempt me, Mx. Dorothy. There’s a lot I could ask for.”

“… I understand.” The offer stays open. Just a little. It’s in Alice D.’s blood to want to help, to offer gratitude and recompense. It hurts almost physically to refuse. “It was nice walking with you, Archangel Michael.”

The iron edge of the glare melts away, if only a little. “It was nice walking with you, Alice Dorothy.”

Michael does not say goodbye. Goodbyes sound almost too permanent in the echo of Elsewhere’s halls. But he takes his leave all the same. She watches the long, transparent thread trailing after him, watches it glimmer faintly in the artificial lights.

D. regrets her decision already. But she can’t bring herself to take it back.

⋈

There’s a line of salt at the door, wavy and barely serviceable. That’s a bad sign.

Alice D. knocks carefully, one, two, three, four, and when someone yells “come in!” she does. It’s easy to step over the sloppy line, even with nothing truly fae-touched about her. It was harder at her last dorm.

Was that because of the debts? Or was there really more power in a better line? She’d test it if it wasn’t so dangerous to test.

The door opens without the clink of crystal she expects. And she does expect that clink. There is no trinket hanging above the entrance. Understandable; it isn’t a required protection, not really. It was more Lento’s, a payment she’d likely wrangled from some Good Neighbour or other.

More worryingly, there isn’t the sick feeling she expects from an established threshold. There’s a printed poster of the Disney fairies on the wall, an annoyingly sexualized anime version that must be fanart. There isn’t the faint scent of sweet cream having been left out for the brownies. The salt line on the window is faded. D. can’t help but balk at the state of the protections in place.

The RA who’d helped her in signing all the moving papers said that she would have a roommate. _How_ does she still have a roommate?

The answer, D. suspects, lies in the iron.

The room smells like iron, all melted and steeped in it. There’s a little Roomba on the floor, old and worn, but any broken parts have been soldered together and the long iron nail taped- no, _soldered_ , Lord above- to its side is threatening to humans and Neighbours both. There’s a camera on a messy desk, one of the more old-fashioned metal ones. The whirring fan has metal blades. Nothing here, nothing at all, is sickening.

This place is a death trap for Neighbours, Alice D. thinks. She thanks God she isn’t fey.

“Oh. So you’re my new roommate?”

D. isn’t quite sure what to say to the student on the bed, someone a little shorter than her with more piercings on their face than she has fingers. “Fix your salt lines,” perhaps? “Your Roomba is going to give someone tetanus,” maybe? “This room’s brownies are going to revolt,” of course, is always an option.

She says none of these things. It’s always best to be polite.

“Yes, I am. It’s nice to meet you.”

“Name, major, and pronouns,” the student drawls, flopping back down onto their bed gracelessly. The springs creak sadly at the sudden weight. They’re a first-year, then. They have to be a first-year. No-one could survive into their second year if they were this reckless. Not without some serious protection.

“You can call me Alice Dorothy,” D. acquiesces, delicately sidestepping the nail-wielding Roomba and depositing herself safely on the other bed. It looks as if it’s being used as storage. Absolutely wonderful. “I’m a psychology major, still considering a minor for next year, and… she? Ne? Both are… fine. It’s rude to ask for names here, you know.” Being called _ne_ would be amazing. But _she_ is fine, too, if a little more confusing. She’s still working out the confusing bits. “What should I call you?”

“My safename’s Connor,” the student says proudly, sinking comfortably into their mound of pillows. They’re probably in robotics, with that name. Or mechanical engineering. “I’m in robotics, minoring in photography. All pronouns are good. Do you like Wally?”

“… I’m going to presume that Wally is the Roomba.” Wally. Wall-E. D. would be laughing at the clever pun if Wally the Roomba didn’t have a nail stuck to its side. “It’s… cute? I’m scared of its weapon, but it’s a very cute Roomba.”

“Thanks! It’s precious, isn’t it?”

“… Yes. It is.” _There is no debt, there is no debt- there is no debt to be paid_. The thought comes frantically, more panicked than anything, but… there is no cord. There is no string. Something must be protecting Connor, thank God. Alice D. has a sneaking suspicion it’s the iron. Iron in our blood, metal in our veins. The robotics students must take that too literally.

Now that she’s looking, D. can spot the tell-tale traces of metal embedded in Connor’s body. There are the piercings, yes, on Connor’s ears and nose and lip and by their eyes, but those are not all. There are odd burn marks and discolorations on their pale skin, places where metal must have melted into them just a little bit. There are marks on their fingers too, still-fading burns of silver nitrate from darkrooms. It’s a wonder they haven’t found out about the Else yet.

And they cannot have found out about the Else yet, of course. They’re too careless to know.

“You like the view, Alice?” Connor asks cockily. “I’m interested if you are.”

“No, though I appreciate the offer.” D. tries to figure out how to politely say she was cataloguing all the reasons Connor’s still alive before deciding it won’t quite matter. “It’s just… I’ve never met anyone with so many piercings before.”

“I’ve got a few everywhere important,” the robotics major brags. “You want me to give you one?”

“I’ve never been interested in getting any.” The feel of the sharp ends, stabbing pinprick holes into her skin, the thought of infection and the fear of that pain- well, suffice to say that D.’s never been comfortable with piercings, even the earrings she’d been made to wear as a child. “There isn’t any need.”

“Damn, that’s a shame. Maybe you wouldn’t look so boring if you had a few.” Connor laughs, the sound of it light enough that D. can tell it’s meant to be a joke.

“Boring? Me? I like to think I’m not.”

“I wouldn’t be able to make you out in a crowd at fifty paces. _Boring_.”

Alright, the joke’s getting a little mean-spirited. D. changes the subject quickly. Maybe she could figure out how to ask the brownies to make her a dress? She doesn’t like the thought of being so unrecognizable. “I apologize for coming here so suddenly. My last roommate and I had… well, a bit of a fight. I was worried she’d try and hurt me if I stayed.”

“No, no, that’s fine! Use the dorm as a safe room all you like. I’m not going to kick you out for that or anything.” Connor shifts, splayed out on their stomach and looking altogether too comfortable for the hard school mattresses. “If you want, I could punch your last roommate for you.”

“That’d probably make it worse. Still, I appreciate the offer.”

It’s a pleasant thought. She thinks she might grow to like Connor.


End file.
